Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant
by Librasmile
Summary: In reward for his service, Snape receives from Voldemort a gift he’s desired seemingly forever. Rated T just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant**

**Disclaimer: **Original characters are mine, all else is the glorious property of J.K. Rowling.

**Author's Note:** _In reward for his service, Snape receives from Voldemort a gift he's desired seemingly forever._

Among his sixth or seventh year advanced students there is a favorite of Snape's. Her name is Ophelia Broomall (name may change). She should have been in Ravenclaw. But he's very pleased she wound up in his house. She is a joy to teach. And joy is not a word Snape would use lightly even in his own head. Like Hermione Granger, she's a brilliant potions student. Unlike Hermione she doesn't feel the need to let everyone know it. She is a quiet girl, a pureblood who, like Tom Riddle, wound up in a Muggle orphanage. She was sent to Hogwarts on scholarship.

Snape not only considers her one of his favorite students…he's developed feelings for her. He doesn't dare name them. But the last time he felt anything like this was when Lily Potter was alive. And that terrifies him. So he's very careful to keep a proper distance. But she is an orphan and a very gifted student. So when she comes to Hogwarts in little more than rags and is sorted into Slytherin he takes the initiative to ask Professor McGonagall to help her find some decent clothes. And when she shines in his class he always makes a point of saying "Well done, Miss Broomall." No more than that, mind you. He's even careful to then follow up with another challenge just so that no one can accuse him of playing favorites.

But in his mind, he's christened her his little Raven.

She's now in his NEWTS class. And it's the consensus of the faculty that she would make an excellent healer. The younger Slytherins are always chasing her down when they have minor stomach upsets or nosebleeds, usually from something they shouldn't have been doing in the first place. Rather than go to Madam Pomfrey and risk being reported to Snape, they go to her. She never tells unless it's absolutely serious. He turns a blind eye.

The older Slytherins are not quite as trusting. In fact, they don't trust her at all. When she first came to Hogwarts, she had all the traits of a student who would wind up in Ravenclaw. She had their insatiable curiosity, their keen intelligence and intellectualism, their expansive imaginations, and their tendency toward the abstract. Yet, the sorting hat put her in Slytherin, the house of ambition and arrogance and no little fascination with the Dark Arts. Everyone was shocked, including Snape. And when she joined the Slytherin table her table mates glared at her with suspicion. Since then they've treated her like the enemy. The Slytherins in her own year tend to bully her and Snape has had to suspend several in punishment. Fortunately for her, none have ever been expelled on her account. He feared it would go extremely badly for her if anyone had. And Snape can't monitor her 24 hours a day.

So Snape makes it his mission to do as much as he can to make sure she has a secure future. If she were a boy he might not be quite as protective. But a young lady with no family to protect her is particularly vulnerable. He would hate to see anything happen to her. So Snape recommends her for further studies at St. Mungo's and asks Dumbledore to recommend her as well. Dumbledore happily does so. She is accepted before she even graduates Hogwarts. Her professional future is set.

And, loathe though he is to admit it, so is her personal future.

She has found a suitor in one of the Slytherin prefects. He's a good boy of respectable family and an excellent student although not in his Raven's league. When Snape became aware of this he came up with a pretext to haul the boy into his office and have a talk with him about how to treat young ladies. Ophelia's name was never mentioned but they both knew what they were talking about. To his relief and disappointment, the boy gave him every indication and assertion that he would treat Ophelia as she deserved; he believed him.

Snape rested secure in the conviction that he had done everything he could to ensure Ophelia's future.

And then it all goes down in flames.

Voldemort summons Snape to a meeting of the Death Eaters. He wishes to conduct an experiment and he requires Snape's service. Of course Snape bows his head, "Whatever my lord requires," is his response. "Good, good" Voldemort says silkily. Accompanied by Belletrix Lestrange, he leads Snape to a dark chamber filled with Death Eaters. As usual they are in a circle. Curiously, there is a pool of light in the center of the circle and what looks like a long stone altar. As he approaches, he hears snickering and Belletrix gets a fiendish gleam in her eyes. And then he sees her.

Ophelia, his Raven, tied to the block of stone.

He wants to fall down. He wants to throw up. He wants to kill them all and snatch her off that stone and away to safety. He can't do any of these things. He can't even blink an eye. He has to remain as detached and cold as he always is among the Death Eaters. They must think she is nothing to him. Or, if she is anything, she is a toy he'd like to play with.

And then he realizes: that's it. Someone knows. Not what he does for Dumbledore but what she is to him. How they know he can't fathom. Automatically his mind races through the possibilities and with an effort he stops it. Now is not the time to think of that. Now he has to find a way to free Ophelia without letting Voldemort and his followers think he cares anything about her.

He doesn't even want to spare a thought as to what they might have done to her. If he, even for one second contemplates those possibilities, he will fling himself howling onto Voldemort and do his best to kill him.

So he remains still. And before he can speak, Voldemort saves him the effort of having to come up with something innocuous.

"I have not forgotten your fidelity, Snape. I reward those who serve me well. Of course, any reward must serve the greater purpose."

Nothing, not an eyebrow, flickers on Snape's face, though his eyes never move from the sight before him. "Of course, my lord." His mind kicks in; perhaps Voldemort will reveal a weakness. "How may I serve your purpose?"

"I require a body."

Discreetly, Snape swallows past the bile in his throat.

"A female body, my lord?" he chances to ask. "Not even grown. Of what use can she be to you my lord?"

Voldemort smiles. Beside him so does Belletrix. Snape can feel her gaze poring over every detail of his face, looking for…something.

"I should clarify," Voldemort says. "I require a child."

The minutest of frowns appears on Snape's face. Beside him he can hear Belletrix' swift intake of breath. The sound is like an invisible breeze, too far away from the other Death Eaters to register it. But Snape hears it.

His mind is racing. A _child_? If that's what he needs why hasn't he procured one instead of taking Ophelia? Then his stomach lurches. He swears Belletrix can sense it. He wants to _sire_ a child. Oh gods, oh gods…But it isn't possible. Voldemort has a body but it isn't fully functional yet. He could hardly stand, let alone father a child.

Beside him, in his peripheral vision, he can see Belletrix, still staring at him, as she licks her lips and bares her teeth.

"To what end, my lord?" Snape says finally.

"The Boy Who Lived remains a plague on my soul. I created him, to my cost, the only thing that can threaten me. If I can create one, I can create another."

And then Snape turns his head to look at Voldemort, astonishment clearly written on his face.

"And this one, will be _mine_."

Beside him, a maniacal grin erupts across Belletrix' face.

"Look at her. She's beautiful," Voldemort observes.

Belletrix' smile falters and she glances nervously back at Voldemort who ignores her.

"A pureblood," Voldemort continues. "A worthy mother. Who requires a worthy father."

And now Voldemort returns Snape's gaze. His smile sends tendrils of fear snaking through Snape's blood. And then Snape utters the rarest of phrases for him.

"I don't understand." But the truth is he understands perfectly. The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, is the only thing that can defeat Voldemort. And Voldemort himself created him by attacking him as an infant. His mother lost her life shielding her son from that blast and put on him the charm that protects him from Voldemort even now. And now he knows, as Snape has always suspected, that some part of Voldemort went into Harry; Voldemort's attack placed it there. If Voldemort can create one powerful threat, surely he can create another. Impregnate the mother with the seed of a servant loyal to him, who can be counted on to stand aside, to throw the mother into the path of Voldemort's wand when the Dark Lord comes to kill.

The truth is he understands. He simply does not wish to believe.

"You will create a weapon for me, Snape, one that I shall raise and train to serve me well."

Snape's mind is spinning faster than almost he can follow and yet he manages to say, "Forgive me, my lord, but the time frame. A baby cannot fight a war. Potter is a threat now."

He almost blanches as Voldemort's eyes narrow. "Do you doubt my ability to defeat Potter?"

Immediately Snape bows his head. "Never my lord. But may I not serve you better immediately than to wait nine months for the birth of a child who must be nurtured for yet again at least seven more years before he is of any use to you?"

Voldemort smiles almost fondly. "Loyal Snape. " He reaches out a cold hand and lifts Snape's chin so that the Slytherin Head Master meets his gaze. "Fear not. I have more immediate efforts in the making for which I will summon you. But for now, do my bidding and allow me to reward my faithful servant even as he helps me to achieve my ends."

Snape turned his head back to where Ophelia lay.

_And if he doesn't allow Voldemort to "reward" him_, his mind asks. What then? He suppressed a shudder. He knew what the Death Eaters did to those who were no longer of use. That Ophelia still breathed, that her body, what he could see of it, was relatively unscathed, was nothing short of a miracle. But then she was still of use to Voldemort. A_re there not any worthier candidates, my lord?_ The question arose in his mind and he quashed it. If he asked, he opened the door to Voldemort actually considering another candidate. At that point Ophelia's life would last as long as it took to find someone else. Which still didn't explain why Voldemort had chosen Ophelia. Gods, why her of all people?! Voldemort's "rewards" were never simple, never straightforward. There was always a sting in the tail.

As he gazed at Ophelia, he saw her suddenly heave once as if struggling to breathe. He betrayed no emotion. But he knew it was unlikely, undamaged as she appeared to be, that the Death Eaters would have left her entirely unmolested. _Unmolested._ His stomach lurched at that word.

"Snape."

As if in a trance, he turned back to Voldemort.

"Have you not desired her from the beginning?" he asked, almost kindly.

Snape turned back to Ophelia. Oh but she had blossomed this year! The skinny child with over large eyes and too heavy hair had finally filled out and grown into her own beauty. The bullying of her Slytherin classmates had declined as her attractiveness grew. He had feared it would start again as she rebuffed their sexual advances. But her relationship with Marius Bentlow had drawn her under his protection. They might grumble, but they'd never dare lay a finger on Marius' girl. Whether they had become intimate he did not know. He'd refused to let his mind dwell on the possibility. He knew though that it was likely to happen sooner rather than later. As it should. She was a young woman, with a bright future. And if she'd had any family to weigh in on the issue, he felt sure that they would have urged her to find a potential spouse at Hogwarts. A Hogwarts graduate, after all, came with a certain cachet, the wizarding world's stamp of approval as it were. And how many marriages occurred within the years of graduation? He had lost count. Nor were the faculty above encouraging such matches. A marriage between Hogwarts students more frequently than not led to the enrollment of yet more Hogwarts students as the couples sent their offspring to the school where they'd found their happiness.

He'd refused to even consider letting his own desire impede that natural progression.

Never mind that he'd destroyed half his potions cabinet when he'd learned she was dating Marius. Nor would he remember how he'd tossed and turned with dreams he'd be too ashamed to recall even to himself until he'd broken down and pulled from its hiding place the photo of Lily Evans. If Ophelia had had red hair instead of black and green eyes instead of blue, he would have understood his desires better. For she had the same intelligence, the same wit, the same sparkle as Lily. But she looked nothing like Lily. She was _not _Lily. And yet, just by her presence, she'd unwittingly reopened old wounds, brought him face to face again with the longing and the loss he thought he'd buried for good. He never thought he'd feel that warmth again. And then the Sorting Hat had sent it straight to Slytherin House.

In no reality had he ever expected her to be his.

Why hadn't he thought about this nightmarish possibility?

"Yes. I want her."

Beside him Belletrix' smile widened again at the naked hunger in his eyes.

Voldemort smiled almost benevolently. "Then my servant, do my bidding."

Snape turned back to the altar stone. And then he saw him. There, among the Death Eaters standing opposite, Marius Bentlow, his face unmasked.

He was not surprised. How odd, he thought. Perhaps it was because some small part of him had always thought, no feared, that it was too good to be true, the détente between Ophelia and her fellow Slytherins, the appearance of a fiancé. No one's life is that easy, Snape knew, even if they're receiving help from the highest ranks of Hogwarts' faculty.

In another time and place, he would curse the blood from Marius' body.

But _this_ time and place demanded a choice from him. He could refuse Voldemort's command and seal both his and Ophelia's death sentences as well as endanger Potter, Dumbledore and the entire Order of the Phoenix. Or he could do his master's will and, Merlin willing, buy Ophelia nine more months of life.

His gaze shifted to where Ophelia lay. He started walking toward her, discarding his robe as he moved.

_O, my Raven, forgive me this evil I'm about to do to you._

**The End?**

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**Author's Note: **_See what happens when I go on a Harry Potter fan fic binge? Interested in more? Please read and review and let me know. Much thanks!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant**

_**By Librasmile**_

**Summary:** _In reward for service, Voldemort gives Snape something he's desired seemingly forever. _

**Disclaimer:** _Original characters are mine, all else is the glorious property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my use of her characters._

**Rating:** _R -- Includes implied violence and sexual situation. Not suitable for readers under 17. You have been warned. Please do not read if this type of material offends you. Thank you._

**Author's Note: **_Snape gets a bit dark in this installment. But don't fret. I like a lot of dark before my dawn. Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 2**

It was an art, this.

In the Dark Lord's world, the giving and receiving of pain was a high art, and Severus knew its most adept practitioner was measuring his every step as he advanced on his "gift."

With a whisper of sound the black fabric of his cloak slid from his shoulders as he walked. He left it discarded on the ground. He moved deliberately with the prowling gait he used to intimidate his students. Years of espionage had made it almost soundless but no less menacing. His mind began the automatic ritual of dividing itself. With no conscious effort, he mentally hived off the battered, bruised but still human part of himself that shouted, pleaded, begged him to stop. Then he brought forward the detached, coldly clinical observer to which he retreated in order to perform his most heinous tasks. Of course, an assignment from Voldemort was never just a task. It was usually an atrocity, an ordained sin. He began to unbutton his collar.

His hands shook.

That physical fact almost stopped him. He faltered for a moment, the briefest moment, then continued, but he was sure Voldemort noticed the lapse. There was no cure for it but to keep moving. So he did.

As he approached the altar he stopped. Slowly, like a jeweler considering the precise point at which to start cutting the diamond, he circled the stone. Behind and around him, he heard the murmurs of his fellow Death Eaters as their level of anticipation rose. Aside from his status as one of the Dark Lord's most loyal servants, Severus knew he had a reputation among them for having a certain macabre flair. He had earned it thanks to the exacting and bloody work he'd made of Voldemort's victims in those damning years before he'd found his way back to the light. He had not always needed to kill, but when he did it had been shamefully easy for him. He was thorough. He'd made an art of it. A clean art.

While some of Voldemort's followers made a habit of toying sexually with their prey before killing them, he had always abstained. Unable to leave until an assignment was completed, he had stood aside and watched, unable to mask his distaste. He had never had the courage to really examine why they had let him get away with this. No matter. The tables had turned. Now Severus would be the one to play while they watched. He knew his fellow Death Eaters were practically salivating at the prospect of watching him take her. If he did well, then they would at least see their smug colleague brought down to their level. If not, Voldemort would kill him and open up a space for someone else to advance. Either way, they were certain to be thoroughly entertained. There was a rustling as some of the Death Eaters moved closer, unwilling to miss a second of the performance.

As he completed his circuit, Severus' eyes skimmed over Ophelia's body. He noted the blood. There was a cut. Several. Just enough to give pain but not to kill. His gaze followed the seeping trails back to their original wounds. Ah. They had made the Feratu Cuts. Of course. And she was a pureblood. The temptation would have been too much to resist. Mesmerized, he extended his hand. He trailed a finger though her blood then brought it to his mouth. Inside himself, his shackled humanity howled. Outside, he shivered and closed his eyes, savoring the taste. The magic imbued in the salty fluid jolted his tongue. How many of his audience had already tasted her, he wondered. Only the select few would be allowed, he knew. But the full meal would be his.

Opening his eyes, he studied her face. Her profile was still. Long tendrils of her hair obscured it. He moved closer. He needed to see her eyes. He climbed atop the altar. She was either too dazed or too tightly bound to resist. Straddling her on his hands and knees, he brought his face level to hers. The panels of the dark high-collared coat he'd unbuttoned hung on either side of him, brushing against her. He could see the pulse fluttering in her throat. He brushed her hair away. She flinched. So. She was still awake in there. She turned her face from him. He grabbed her chin and forced her back. Her eyes, only half open, closed.

"Look at me," he ordered.

She squeezed her lids tighter.

The palm of his open hand cracked against her skin. She gasped as the force of the blow whipped her head in the opposite direction. Malicious laughter rippled among the crowd around them. He heard Bellatrix' manic, high-pitched peal among them. Again, he forced Ophelia to face him.

"Look at me."

She opened her eyes.

And then he felt it. The power in the stone. He'd felt it humming with energy from the second he'd touched it. He'd assumed the dark magic of the Feratu Cuts was doing its work, draining her energy for others to consume. But nothing wizard-invoked could be this powerful. Gods, what more was his master planning? His eyes flicked up and away from Ophelia's face to find Voldemort's. The Dark Lord's smile widened. Severus suppressed a shudder and returned his gaze to the woman beneath him.

Ophelia was watching him.

For a moment he was impaled by the intensity in her eyes.

In the last year he had become afraid to look directly into her eyes for too long. It was embarrassing really. He was an expert Occlumens. He had no excuse for his weakness. But it was hard to erect mental walls against the very thing you most wanted to touch. And he had too many secrets he feared he could not hide. The fire with which he'd incinerate Marius Bentlow if his conscience would let him. The raw, still bleeding wound that held his grief over Lily. The hollow knowledge that he was – and most likely would end his life, sooner rather than later – alone.

Worst of all there was his unfilled hunger for her. The shameful acceptance that this craving would have made the man he used to be abandon his self-imposed restrictions and pounce before Voldemort could even think to issue a command. And the bitter comprehension that no amount of repentance or longing could ever make him the kind of man to whom a woman could safely pledge her life. Ultimately, Lily knew this, he realized, although they had never gone this far. No matter. Here lay the proof before the argument could even have been made. He had hid from Ophelia because he was afraid she would see too much of his charred soul.

But he could not hide now…even as her eyes still speared him.

Lily had looked at him like that. For each step he'd taken when he'd gone down the dark path, he could recall the anguish in Lily's eyes. He could recall perfectly the times and the places he'd seen it, feel the invisible burns it had left on him. How many times had he seen that look before she had finally given up on him? He swallowed audibly, the sound thankfully lost beneath the clamor of the mob. Voldemort had served him up another feast of loss.

Belatedly he realized he had settled his body on Ophelia's. She was pinned, although the bonds on her wrists made that a redundancy. His hands had begun undoing her clothing. It was Muggle style. So they had snatched her outside of Hogwarts then. He saw the goose flesh rise on her skin as he exposed her to the cool night air. Her breath quickened and terror etched itself across her face but she didn't look away. He no longer needed to force her. She didn't want to risk him hitting her again. Ever the quick student.

He slid his hands across her bare flesh. She shivered. So did he. Somewhere inside himself, something dark he'd failed to subdue crawled forward to savor the sensation, heedless of whatever evil brought it. He leaned down to kiss her and, despite her fear, she closed her eyes. He saw her muscles tense as she braced herself for another hit. Instead he whispered against her mouth. "Keep them open." She obeyed.

Without warning he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She winced but he couldn't spare her even a hint of reassurance. These ghouls wanted pain. They wanted blood. Beneath him, he could feel Ophelia's breathing escalate; she was hyperventilating. He fastened his teeth onto her throat. At that she cried out. The crowd around them roared their approval. That's why he almost didn't hear her when she spoke, gasping and choking out the words.

"Please," she begged. "I'm not Lily. I'm _not _Lily!"

He stared at her in horror. Gods, could she hear his thoughts? And why would she think…That dark thing in his mind, that repellent, starving thing that was enjoying this, spoke quietly, malevolently. _You know why_. The words reverberated through his mind, bouncing off the confines of his own skull, crashing into each other until they hit their mark. He _did _know. He didn't want to. But he did.

He started to shake. Then, with a ruthless effort he made himself stop.

It didn't matter, he realized coldly, huddling inside himself.

Crudely, he placed his hand over her face, gripping her jaw, covering her mouth. He could stop her words, he noted dully. And other things as well. Her eyes widened. His gaze drilled into hers. He drew a breath to say the spell.

"_Legilimens_," he whispered.

**To Be Continued?**

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**Author's End Note: **_I have no idea if this will show up on the web site. The first installment never did. If you found it, good on you! If not, I guess I'm just writing in the wind. Le Sigh._


	3. Chapter 3

**Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant**

**Summary:** _In reward for service, Voldemort gives Snape something he's desired seemingly forever. _

**Disclaimer:** _Original characters are mine, all else is the glorious property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my use of her characters._

**Rating:** _R -- Includes implied violence and sexual situation. Not suitable for readers under 17. You have been warned. Please do not read if this type of material offends you. Thank you._

**Author's Note: **_Well, lookee here, I wrote Chapter 3. Go me! Hope you like it. I know the first two chapters were rather dark. This chapter has darkness as well but as it's dealing with the aftermath of the first two it's not too bad. I think. But what do I know? Please read and review!_

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**Chapter 3**

It had been a long night.

Voldemort was nothing if not thorough – a trait Severus shared, which perhaps went some way to explain the Dark Lord's infernal favor towards him. Voldemort had not dismissed the potions master until the first rays of dawn began slicing across the sky.

Severus slowly lifted himself off of his student. She wasn't conscious. With hands trembling from exhaustion and emotions that self-preservation refused to let him name, he sought and found his discarded clothing and began to dress.

Most of the other Death Eaters had long since abandoned the place after Voldemort had given them leave to find their own amusement. A few stragglers remained, sprawled on the grass. They lay sleeping where they'd fallen after groping then servicing each other, inspired by the previous night's exhibition.

Severus closed his eyes as his stomach lurched. Reflexively, his mind began sorting though the contents of his potions stores. Dreamless Sleep. Bottled Obliviate. Trauma Release. Aura Re-sealer. He mentally made a note to replenish the stock. None would last the day, not if he ever hoped to sleep again.

Voldemort himself had only just left. He'd spent the night lounging on his now empty "throne" as Bellatrix danced attendance. If he wanted food she brought it. If he was thirsty, she held the cup as he drank. If he needed other pleasures, she provided those too with a relish that would have revolted Severus if he hadn't already exceeded his limits.

He fastened the last button at his collar and bent to retrieve his cloak. He shook the dust and dirt from it and spread it wide as he advanced on Ophelia. There was no question of leaving her here. It was understood that he would take her with him. Voldemort would expect Severus to personally see the Dark Lord's plan fully executed. So for the next nine months Ophelia was his.

Nothing flickered on his face as his gaze caught the gray-mottled bruises and jagged red edges of dried cuts against her white skin. She was still breathing. But then that had been the plan. He spread the cloak over her and gathered her up. Her body fell limply into his arms.

For a split-second, the memory of his mother's old rag doll flashed through his mind. It had been a memento, a prize won for her during her courtship with the Muggle man, his father, whose marriage to his mother had caused her wizard family to disown her. The summer Severus had returned from his first year at Hogwarts, his head buzzing with notions of pure-blood sanctity, he'd stolen the doll and thrown it into the alley behind the house. That hadn't satisfied him though. So he'd gone back out later that night and tossed it around before discarding it once more. When the loss was discovered, his mother had been so distraught that he'd slunk outside yet again to retrieve it. And he had found it. The arms and legs had been dangling by threads, three strands of yarn hair hung from its torn cloth scalp, and wads of stuffing had trickled sadly from the holes ripped in its body.

He'd brought the thing back to her, little more than a pile of scraps in his thin hands. For one horrified, guilty moment he'd nearly laughed as he'd handed it to her. His mother was weeping over scraps. He knew she would try, use all her non-wizard skill – for his father had forbidden doing magic in the house – to salvage it. But he knew it was hopeless. If she hadn't been crying so hard, he would have told her so. But his throat had closed and the words wouldn't come. So he'd said nothing and retreated to his room, his blurred vision making him stumble along the way.

Holding Ophelia close, he blinked but his eyes remained clear.

They remained so when he stepped out of the fireplace with her into Dumbledore's office. Nothing changed as he faced the startled headmaster and gave the briefest possible report before floo'ing with her again, Dumbledore on his heels, to Madame Pomfrey's infirmary. They remained hard and cold and clear as he answered Pomfrey's questions.

"Yes, she has the Feratu Cuts," he said quietly.

Pomfrey gasped and instantly erected the magical shield she'd need to treat them, even as he assured her that the school also had the requisite supply of Aura Re-sealer.

"Were you the only one?" Pomfrey asked as she continued running her diagnostic spells.

"No, there were several who sampled her."

From the corner of his eye, Severus could see Albus blanch and stare at him. Severus ignored him.

"No I mean for the other…" Pomfrey said grimly.

"Yes," he says quietly. "I was the only one."

She nodded once and continued working.

The two men stood in silence as she worked. The infirmary was empty. Severus didn't recall Albus warning Pomfrey of the need for discretion but he could think of no other reason for the absence of the usual post-weekend Quidditch casualties. He exhaled gratefully. He had no mental energy left to rebuff the curiosity of a stray student and explanations would have been impossible.

Without comment, Pomfrey closed the cuts and spoke the spell that would begin to heal them. She summoned a bottle of Aura Re-sealer and began dabbing it on Ophelia's wounds, shaking her head worriedly. "I've never treated such dark magic cuts," she muttered distractedly. She waved her wand again, pulled the blanket over Ophelia then stepped away, pulling the bed curtains closed.

She faced the two men. "Her energy is still bleeding out of her," she said. "If the Re-sealer doesn't stop it in the next hour, we'll have to move her to where she can be protected. I won't be able to shield her here."

Severus and Albus nodded, neither able to summon a verbal reply.

Pomfrey stared at them for a moment. "Headmaster, you look unwilling and Prof. Snape looks unable, so I'm assuming that I won't get a full explanation of how Miss Broomall was…injured, is that correct?"

Severus' lips parted but no sound came out.

Dumbledore came to his rescue. "I think not, Poppy," he said softly. "At least not today."

Pomfrey nodded. "Well then," she said briskly. "If you'll just step this way professor." She reached for the potions master.

"No!"

The nurse and headmaster stared in surprise as Severus all but jumped back, his black eyes glittering dangerously. Belatedly catching himself he spoke calmly if coldly. "Thank you, Madame Pomfrey, I am fine. I am in no need of assistance."

"Forgive me, Severus, but I must disagree," Dumbledore countered gently.

Severus almost winced at the effort it took to meet Dumbledore's calm blue gaze. With a start he realized his eyes were hot and that, without realizing it, he had backed himself against a wall.

"Severus," Dumbledore continued. "You and your student have suffered extensive exposure to very dark, and, if my suspicions are correct, very old magic. I would be remiss in my duty as headmaster if I didn't see that _both_ of you received adequate medical care."

The headmaster stepped closer, extending a hand but taking care not to touch. "Please let Poppy examine you."

"I'm not a child, Albus," Severus snapped. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Dumbledore and Pomfrey exchanged a glance. Dumbledore took another step closer. "Yes, Severus, you are," he said soothingly. "Far too young to understand an old man's fetches but could you at least humor me? Please?"

"Headmaster!" Pomfrey hissed worriedly.

Dumbledore shook his head sharply, his gaze still focused on the wary potions master. "Please, Severus?" he repeated.

Severus stared at the frail-looking old man. He knew from hard experience that Dumbledore was anything but frail. In its own way, the force of Dumbledore's will rivaled Voldemort's. He could feel that force weighing on him now. Pressure settled in his chest and throat and he could feel sweat breaking out across his skin. Foolishly, childishly, he flattened himself against the wall as if he could evade it. As if a wall could stop Dumbledore.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but the air seemed to grow drier and hotter until it hurt to draw breath. Where was his occlumency training? He had used legilimency on Ophelia the night before. Had the process somehow made him forget how to do the opposite?

Beside Dumbledore, he could see Pomfrey had her wand outstretched and aimed at him but the headmaster's arm barred her.

Why couldn't he focus? His eyes narrowed at her. He felt a rush of anger – or was it heat? – surge through him. Was she bewitching him?

Dumbledore's voice pulled Severus' attention back toward the headmaster.

"Please, Severus," he coaxed. "Let Poppy look at you."

This was foolish, Severus thought. Dumbledore would simply pester him until he agreed. He pulled away from the wall, drawing himself up in an attempt project some semblance of dignity.

"Fine," he snapped, then blinked as Dumbledore's hand closed on his own. When had the headmaster gotten close enough to touch him, he wondered.

And then he screamed.

**0oo00oo00oooo**

Pomfrey and Dumbledore leapt forward as Severus fell to his knees. With surprising strength the nurse and old man attempted to pull the younger man to his feet, but it was no use. Severus folded in on himself, writhing and crumpling as if bespelled by the Cruciatus curse.

Mutual fear synchronized Pomfrey and Dumbeldore's motions as they waved their wands simultaneously. Pomfrey threw a sleeping spell at him as Dumbledore muttered "Leviocorpus." Abruptly, the screams stopped, Severus went limp, and his body rose, floated toward one of the hospital beds and landed gently on its surface.

For a moment, Dumbledore and Pomfrey stared at him, breathing heavily from their exertions.

"I tried to tell you," Pomfrey said finally. "He's burning."

"I know."


End file.
